


Of Romance and Dreams

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-30
Updated: 2012-04-01
Packaged: 2017-11-02 17:50:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/371715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of all the things for teenage boys to master, romantic affairs are really not the easiest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Of Prospit

**Author's Note:**

> Based off of/inspired by these two pieces of fanart: http://hamletmachine.tumblr.com/post/17015109528/ & http://mirrorshards.tumblr.com/post/17020858081/ . This is really just a fuckload of fluffy, introspective cute shit so far. Tags will be updated as necessary and whatnot.

Sometimes, the absolute differences between Prospit and Derse were incredibly striking. They were always there, obvious to even the most unobservant of bystanders, yet they never really seemed extraordinarily prominent until one travelled between the two kingdoms extensively. This is precisely what you've been doing for some time now, and the distinctions are finally beginning to sink in fully.

If you're to be honest, the stark contrast doesn't particularly bother you; in fact, it's rather nice. Refreshing, you suppose might be a good word for it, even if the main factor in that potential statement certainly isn't due to a simple day trip from Derse to Prospit. Of course, none of this would be possible otherwise, but that isn't particularly the point. The point is... okay, you're not entirely certain, but there's a point in there somewhere. Besides, you've other things to think about, such as how curiously young Jake looks in his sleep.

Sure, your little rag-tag group isn't collectively even over the age of fifteen, and you usually think of how youthful and vibrant Jake looks with that spark of adventure in his eyes, but you mean that in a sense of being young and alive rather than just... young. Without that flare of--of mischief, you supply after a moment, he just looks young.

Perhaps he does look his age, though; you are, after all, used to seeing yourself in the mirror, all hard expressions and jaded stares and angles. Jake, on the other hand, is a little less sharp in bone structure and a hell of a lot softer in expression. So, yes, all right, perhaps this is in fact what a normal fifteen-year-old boy should look like.

You also suppose he's likely more of what a fifteen-year-old boy should act like, but, as luck would have it, that boat's already sailed.

It's impossible not to envy Jake English, because for all his curious little quirks -- the result of being realised on movies, you figure -- he is, all in all, the more 'normal' of the two of you.

It's also impossible not to love him for the exact same reasons.

You cannot even begin to express just how thankful you are that his dream self hasn't ever woken up, not even once. Not only would it make those times you come to check up on him immensely awkward -- from your point of view, at least -- you're just monumentally uncertain what you'd do with yourself if the two of you ever met, face-to-face, without extensive previous preparation. You have, quite obviously, given the situation some consideration. Just not enough for you to give it your absolute Dirk Strider Seal of Approval. After all, if that was the case, you'd be hoping daily that he would wake up the next time you visited, or at least the time after that.

In the mean time, you're able to admire him all you want. You never overstep any major boundaries, so anyone who says watching someone while they sleep is inherently creepy can go shove it. It isn't like you sparkle or anything.

Your gaze drifts over him and you realise just how nice the gold and yellow of his pyjamas looks against his bronzed skin. Bronzed is rather an understatement, as he's really quite tanned, whereas all you have to show for sun-exposure is a smattering of freckles (and the memories of sunburns). Even without the sun's assistance, you'd still have a good majority of those, though maybe less concentrated and dark. Another thing to add to your list of reasons to envylove Jake English. The list has been growing much faster than you intended recently, and you fully blame the increasing frequency of your visits.

Impulsively, you stroke your thumb across his cheek bone, out and around and across his jawline, until the tip of your thumb is resting in the slight cleft of his chin. You let your hand simply sit there, half-cradling his face, as you observe the contrast between your (freckled, pale) hand and his (absolutely perfect, coffee-and-cream) face and you cannot believe you just utilised such an overused cliché to describe your best bro's face. Not just his face, really; any part of him that's frequently battered by the sun, he's rather gorgeous and no, hell no, you are not using such terrible platitudes to describe any part of him, mad ironies (and similarly mad homocrush) aside.

You absolutely refuse to go to the same lengths as a moderately love-struck teenage girl to describe a boy you like, except you already have because that is exactly what you are, minus 'girl' and with the addition of 'boy'. The descriptor of 'moderate' may or may not be accurate, may or may not need to be amped up a few notches because god _damn_ are you head over heels.

Of all the people you know -- not many, you'll admit, but what-the fuck-ever -- you were really the last anyone would have expected to be completely and utterly smitten with someone. And yet here you are, marvelling at you own pathetic state and imperfections as opposed to Jake.

Jake, an absolute paragon of a teenage boy.

Jake, who is more likely to reciprocate Jane's, or even Roxy's potential feelings more than your own.

Jake, who you are absolutely convinced will be impossible to get over, despite how childish and stereotypically _teenager-y_ that mindset is, because for all your theatrics (and for a brief moment, you wonder how much of those you got from him), you're still....

Well. You're still just a kid. As loathe as you are to admit it, you're still not technically or legally an adult--by old standards, anyhow. Either way, in terms of biology, you're not done developing. Mentally, you mean; even if you're beyond your years, your brain is still brewing and whatnot. You're still a child.

Sometimes you wonder if you come here to think about things other than Jake, too.

Then environment is pretty stress-free, after all: if something happens, you'll be there to protect the both of you, and things are practically guaranteed to be nicer than on Derse. Things here aren't nearly as sleazy, at least. You're rather hoping your overall predictions on the matter turn out to be correct. (You think they should.)

After letting your attention slide back to Jake for a few minutes, you decide two things, one of which you're almost certain is a complete fabrication. One, sitting at the edge of the bed like this is getting to be uncomfortable. Two, you're a bit cold. Obviously the solution to this is to curl up next to the captor of your heart -- wow, okay, you definitely need to stop with the dumb lines, surely those are more his area -- in a much more comfortable (and warm) position.

(It's not actually much warmer. Your suspicion of fabrication is justified.)

You end up on your side next to him, one (pink-nailed, when did that ever strike you as a good idea) hand curled against the shoulder of his arm that isn't folded. You figured intruders would be most likely to come through the window, so you situated yourself to face it. (There was also no way you were going to disturb him by moving his arm.) Your head is a few inches above his shoulder, resting on a pillow, and you almost regret moving so far down on the bed that you can't see his face. You feel strangely safe like this, though, and don't feel like ruining that by moving ever a fraction of an inch. So you don't.

This is about as close to real sleep you'll get, you think, and frankly, you are absolutely fine with that.

You only wish you didn't have to leave.

So,

if only for a few hours,

you pretend you don't.


	2. Of Funerals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly longer than the last chapter, as well as, perhaps, little more emotional. What a cheerful instalment.

A few months have passed since the last time you had an extended visit to Prospit. Sure, you've managed to see Jake briefly since then, but briefly is the operative word. You haven't had the chance to curl up next to him again, as much as you've desperately wanted to, though you know it's for the best when your visits are short.

That doesn't mean you like it. Not one bit.

So when word gets around to you, as word is often wont to do -- after all, your hair is only as big as it is because it's full of secrets -- that Jake's dream self is dead, you can't help but wonder if staying a little longer during each visit could've prevented that fate.

You do you best to convince yourself it is in no part your fault.

(It doesn't work very well.)

Honestly, you can't help but blame yourself at least a bit; you told yourself you would protect him and you failed miserably. He's not dead-dead, though, not for good. You figure it's some consolation. You just know that once you start the game, he'll be down a life, as it were, so you'll have to still do your best to protect him.

Then again, if all goes as planned, he won't be caught napping again. (You congratulate yourself for a moment on the fittingness of that term.)

Justifying protecting your best bro to the girls -- particularly Jane -- will be difficult if you plan to keep this whole crush ordeal under wraps. All right, you'll admit, Roxy probably (definitely) knows, but Jane is a different matter entirely. You know she's in the same predicament as you, what with being head-over-heels for a crazy island boy who may or may not be oblivious to or just dismissive of those feelings. Hell, everyone knows, the only exception perhaps being Jake, and you're almost certain that even he's not that dense. In that respect, she's something of an open book. Not like you can blame her, though; Jake's about as perfect as you think someone can get. It's fucking insane, especially if you think about it too much. So you don't.

At least, you try not to.

(This is another thing that doesn't work well.)

(Your list of things you need to be exponentially better at is growing steadily.)

(You don't like it.)

Another thing you're not too fond of is this funeral and its procession, and yet here you are, staring at everything (from a distance, that is) and you're almost disgusted with yourself.

Almost.

The thought crosses your mind of whether or not Jake would have wanted you here. You can really only hope the answer would be yes, and you do so without much other thought. You like to think that prediction might be correct, but given the current success rate of your recent forecasts involving him, you think the likelihood of accuracy is rather low.

That doesn't stop you from thinking it. After all, it is Jake, and he does care very much about all of you. He'd likely want you, Jane, and Roxy here, if he were really dead, discussing him in life and what great times the three of you had with him, as well as, you suppose, each other.

This idea makes you smile internally, as depressing as all this is. Seeing Prospitians so downcast is... strange, to say the least. Despite all the grandeur, you can't imagine Jake would have wanted anyone to be nearly this sad, even if it is a funeral.

If you're going to be entirely truthful, you want them to hurry up already so you can pay proper respects. Even if he's not truly, entirely dead, you owe him as much.

You also owe him being patient for once in your life so the Prospitians can pay their respects as well. So you stand here, floating every so often to take the weight off your legs and feet (you're only human, despite what other might think; you do get a bit achey after a while), for about an hour, and then a good while after until the previous crowd has dissipated entirely.

Finally.

Your turn.

Despite the slim chance you'll get caught the longer you take, you actually walk to him, each step slow and meticulously measured. When you reach him, the true extravagance of his death bed nearly floors you. The bouquets of flowers situated around and beneath him are absolutely stunning, and they remind you of your own bouquet you've been hiding behind your back this whole time. You went through a good bit of trouble to find out his favourite flowers, then dyed them a brilliant shade of cerulean on your own. A definite feat, considering dyeing petals is a pain in the ass, particularly when trying to keep the flowers from wilting and dying, but worth it all the same. You hadn't been planning on attending a funeral with them when you first began planning all this out. It would just have been a curious little gift left on his nightstand, from a mystery person, for him to see whenever he finally awoke on Prospit.

What a morbidly interesting turn of events.

Setting the bouquet on the side of him opposite you, you find yourself with nothing to do with your hands. You stand there somewhat awkwardly for a moment before reaching a hand out and smoothing Jake's hair. Another moment passes and you fix it again, back to its so-called 'windswept and devil-may-care' style. Unstyle, perhaps. It's not a bad look on him by any means, so you leave it like that.

You can't help yourself. You run your fingers through the hair on the side of his head, admiring the way the light catches on each strand and turns them not-quite-black, just barely verging into a deep, rich brown. You're close to positive you could stare at it all day and not be bored for a second. Especially when you notice just how stark your hand looks next to his hair, which leaves to you drawing your hand away to rest it lightly on his cheek--

And nearly recoiling. He's much colder than you expected, despite being dead. You're used to dead seagulls or other similar bullshit you don't have time for; you are definitely not used to dead anything-else. Not dead humans.

Not dead Jakes.

You also weren't expecting him to be so... pale. He's not too light, not like you, because while you're not white as a sheet you're still rather pale. Jake, on the other hand, is an utterly gorgeous deeper tone. It still lingers, but he looks sickly pale underneath the tan.

It makes sense. After all, this version of him is dead. 'Pale as death' isn't a token phrase for nothing. It's just so unusual that it's caught you off-guard, and it occurs to you that you've never really thought about seeing Jake dead. Sure, you've contemplated life and death and how the nickname Hellmurder Island might one day be more accurate than you care to fully imagine, but having something this severe right in front of you makes it a thousand times more real. Because now, of course, it is real. In some world, at least.

You're not going to cry, though, definitely not, especially not out in the open like this. Back on Earth, Jake is as safe as he can be, as safe as you've managed to keep him, and you know that while he may act before thinking a good portion of the time, he's not stupid. He'll be all right.

And that's what matters.

"So I guess this is it, huh. No more unannounced visits." Your tone is soft, and overall, you're quiet; if you were caught now, it would just be flat-out pathetic.

"I can stop worrying about this you and go back to just keeping Roxy out of trouble. I'm sure she'll be sorry to hear that. She likes her escapades almost as much as she likes martinis."

You receive no response. You didn't expect one.

"You know, I'm kinda sorry I never got to visit when you were awake. I mean, you never woke up, so it's isn't as if I just missed you or anything. Just would've been nice to see you in person. Mutually, I mean. I think the number of times I've seen you without your knowledge of the situation is bordering on creepy."

Essentially a lie. You know it's probably more than creepy.

"Including now. I mean, who shows up at the funeral of a guy he's technically never even met?"

You, apparently.

"Guess I can't do anything about this now. Wish I could have, though. Wish I did, I really do."

You pause briefly to collect your thoughts.

"Look, I can't do anything about you being dead here. But I am going to make damn fucking sure you don't die anywhere else. No way in hell I'm letting that happen."

Already, you can feel your voice threatening to crack, so you go silent in thought. A few moments later, you lean in, pressing a single kiss to his forehead before pulling away. If that's all you ever do, you're pretty sure you'll be okay with it. You run your fingers through his hair one last time, then move away. You know if you stay much longer, you're not going to want to leave, and you need to break down about this at some point where you won't be too distracted to remove your dream self from Prospit before you get caught.

You find yourself reaching back over to adjust his glasses before you really do draw yourself away. You don't want to go. Wanting to do something and having to do something are often at different ends of the spectrum, however, so you give a last, respectful nod and walk away, starting your journey back to Derse.

.

.

.

Later, when it's just you and Cal and no-one else can hear your words or thoughts, you almost wish you'd kissed him properly. Cal reminds you that, in that state, it would have been wrong and even creepier than your usual levels. You know he wouldn't judge you, though; he's just looking out for your best interests.

You still imagine how it might've happened for days.

Maybe a kiss would have saved him, you think. Then you remember none of this is a fairy tale, and despite your titles, you are nowhere near a prince.

And Jake is certainly no damsel in distress.


End file.
